Winter Is Coming

A Lord's Payment

Lord Varys unwound the little scroll he'd taken from the raven, the string that bound it dropping to the floor. He read it with a glance. The bird croaked, hopping from one elegant claw to the other.

"Go on to the avery," Varys intoned, crushing the scroll into a bite-sized ball and letting it drop into the fire. "I'll send for you when I have a moment to reply."

The bird croaked once more and sailed smoothly out of the window, gliding over the tallest tower of the Red Keep before dropping out of sight.

"Littlefinger," Varys scowled. The raven came from the Iron Bank — more accurately, from an agent in the Master of Whispers' pay. Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, had borrowed another hundred thousand coins, and the Iron Bank were impatient to see some of their money back. It was a bad situation.

He stood up.

None of it was good: Jon Arryn's death; the new Hand; the petty power games King Robert's Lannister Queen had already played on the road. Chaos beckoned.

Varys would compromise anything to stave off chaos.

He knew, however, that there were some in Robert Baratheon's court who did not share his mindset. Up and down he paced, his footsteps echoing in the empty chamber. What was to be done? If the debt was not paid, and paid soon, their doom was sealed. Yet the Crown did not have the money to pay.

They had played, they had gambled, and they had lost.

"Something on your mind, Lord Varys?"

The Spider barely turned towards the voice from the door; he knew who it belonged to.

"Lord Baelish! Your punctuality never ceases to intrigue me. A man with so many schemes and intricacies."

"A woman takes care of my schedule, Lord Varys. I trained her. Perhaps you should follow my example. A woman could fill any... lack."

Varys smiled pleasantly. "I would prefer that only I had the full knowledge of my whereabouts."

Lord Baelish stepped further into the room, uninvited, and his gaze flicked to the charred remnants of the scroll, it's corners curling as the flames devoured it. Varys only pulled back a chair at the small table and gestured towards it. Littlefinger excepted the invitation, and said,

"Our good King arrives today. Will you be in the welcome party, my Lord? I heard the King has plans for a tournament in Lord Eddard Stark's honour — I assume you will attend?"

"If the King is gracious enough to invite me, I shall be honoured."

The two men smiled lazily at each other, the eyes of each shrewd and dancing. Truth be told, Varys liked nothing more than the clash of wit with another adept in the great game. Lord Baelish played well, but women were his weakness — and his ambition too naked. A man from a poor house could be discarded as quickly as he rose. Baelish did not have a way out if his influence waned — he, the Spider, had not allowed himself to make such mistakes.

He stood suddenly.

"Come," he said, winningly, "the King's party will be with us by sunset. Both of us have work to do."

"Indeed," Petyr Baelish agreed, rising from his chair. "I look forward to our next meeting."

Littlefinger crossed the room to the door, but paused with a hand on the knob. "The city has much to prepare, does it not, Lord Varys?"

"It does," the Spider agreed, watching Baelish carefully. "And we, too, have many matters to attend, many payments to look to."